Greetings! Notorious here
Just felt like reposting this to see if anyone fancied these lovely little Next Generation fandom plots. These were originally going to be some group or 1x1 storylines that take place in some of our most prized and praised cinema and anime worlds. Those being Harry Potter, Demon Slayer and Pokemon. I'm a big fan of eastern stories and art styles, so Demon Slayer and Pokemon land on this list, but these all were patched together over years of creating and trying a few stories like these. Sadly, though, the Harry Potter prompt hasn't ever got any play at all. And that all seemed like a shame. Like a waste of potential.
So! I'm just posting this here to leave them on offer in case anyone thinks they could have some fun with it. I'm down to arrange a group story, though 1x1s seem to be so much easier to establish a posting pace with. So ask about groups at your own peril. :P
Regardless of all that, though, I just figured I'd share and see if this stirs up anyone's creativity, and if it does then let me know. PM's open.
Farewell ^_^
Note: Demon Slayer character has been updated a bit
-N
Name: Jericho Orion Black
Alias: "Grim"
Initials: J.O.B.
Age: 29
Birthday: November 7th - 2002
Gender: Male
Orientation: Heterosexual
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 208 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Dark Brunette
Notable Scars/Markings: Bears a scar across his brow and one along his jawline where no hair ever grows in. He also has a number of scars in the form of raised, pale lines and seared, pale flesh on his forearms, his upper arms, shoulders and his back from burns and lacerations during bloody and sometimes fatal duels that he has been involved in on a few occasions.
Wand Dimensions: 13 ¾ inches
Wand Make/Style: Smooth, elegant lines etched into a dark toned wood crafted with a pearl handle capped by etched silver ringlets.
Wand Wood:
Wand Core:
Wand Flexibility:
House Membership: Slytherin House
Hogwarts Career: 2014 to 2021
True Allegiance: The Order of the Phoenix
Otherwise known as "Harry's Heroes" the Order of the Phoenix is yet again born anew and consisting of the sons and daughters of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny's generation.
Family Name: The Noble House of Black
Patriarch: Jericho Orion Black
In the the years when days seemed their darkest there was a confrontation between brothers. One determined to make his family of ruthless cultists proud while the other found trustworthy company among those considered enemy. A phoenix of gray and a snake of green. The screaming matches had settled their differences in the end, for it was brothers who fought one another hardest who cared the most, and these brothers fought hard as young hearts could bear.
Sirius Black, the blackest of sheep, and his younger brother Regulus Black, the son perfect to a fault, had both loved and hated one another ever since they could remember. A conflicted relationship that was ever a bleeding vein for the both of them, and it was most of all because they had never managed to make one another see the things that they each thought were important. For Sirius was ever focused on his friends, his education and his dedication to living a full and expectation free life. Yet young Regulus remained devoted to family, faith and the prolonged posterity of their loved ones to come. And so they grew different, each strong, but neither much alike, and eventually their paths diverged.
He was just eighteen that night that he ventured into the deepest and darkest of caves that he could have ever imagined, and it was in this very cave that he was said to have perished after being pulled into a watery graveyard by sickly, pallid, grasping hands. This was not to be the case, however, because before those creatures could pull him so deep that he might vanish into the cold abyss there was a flame set forth, and it burned through the cold, black lake as though the water itself could catch flame as oil. A most powerful flame that could only have ever burned so bright and so hot because it was the flame of a lover. A lover not yet ready to let go, and so she refused to let go that night, dragged the broken young man into an charmed boat and escaped with naught but lies to spread of the demise of the youngest Black.
Her words spoke of death and a cold, lifeless body still resting deep at the bottom of the lake within that awful cave of horrors, but they were lies to shield away the one who'd played subject to her tall tales. For Regulus may have survived, but his form had been greatly weakened by the poisonous kiss from the infected chain of a locket that he'd worn around his throat more than a year. He'd stolen it from the mad Dark Lord, he'd kept it from his family's sight, and then he'd arranged for a decoy to be left so that the real horcrux could be destroyed in his own time when he knew he was adequately prepared. When taking that cursed chain, though, there was an oversight that saw him taking a chilly plunge with undead creatures that suffered a dark eternity there in that black water pit that would never see the light of day.
They tried to drag him down into the afterlife that night, but they were denied for the sake of love, and because that love was obsessive it ensured that Regulus Black would never reveal himself to the world again. A thought that bothered the young man less and less as his body suffered the effects of the locket that he'd worn for much too long. His body seemed sickly and aged into his sixties by the look of his physique, even though he was only just thirty-nine when his lover and caretaker bore him a son. A son who would never really get to know his proud father for the cancer that finally took him one night when he was much too young to understand.
Like Harry's father had predicted in his own son's case, Regulus had expected that his son would benefit greatly from the protection and guidance of his ever decent brother Sirius. And even though they'd had their differences, Regulus had seen to it that Sirius would be the boy's Godfather in the end. A role that he expected his brother to step into without question, just as he had done for Harry who had needed Sirius too. Sadly, though, Sirius had been killed when Harry was just a teen and still growing himself. A fact that made it all the more admirable when Harry Potter himself had gone on and adopted the last two sons of the house of Black in place of his own, late Godfather Sirius.
They were all that Harry had left of his godfather Sirius, and more than that they were the last living members of the House of Black. A great house, despite its dark past, that deserved a chance at redemption in the generations to come.
October 13th, 2032 - thirty-four years after Voldemort's death
"I remember the heat"
Four words were all that he'd managed to write that night. Four words after more than an hour staring down at the otherwise blank pages of a little, black diary he hadn't written in since he was just a boy. A relic full of memories from the past when he was young, eager to learn and navigating teenage years as a lanky, but still growing teen attending school at Hogwarts. And even though there was a furious, boiling river of emotion writhing behind the dam within his soul, he still could muster no further words. Just those four that he'd been staring at until he could feel the stinging redness of exhaustion in his eyes beginning to nag at him so much that a tear finally streamed down his cheek.
It drew a gasp from his pale lips as he finally diverted his eyes from the page and raised a hand of long, slender digits to brush away the moisture. Then he looked back down to the page and decided that to speak the truth was better than never being able to write it down in that little book.
"I remember the heat that rushed like a firebolt up my spine when I saw them laying there...", he whispered into the dead silence of the large, cold room that decades before had been so full with warmth and joy. In fact he could remember those occasions as vividly as though they had taken place right there just the day before. Days when laughter filled the dining room almost all hours of the day and the smell of mouth watering meals would circulate the home by way of the long halls and winding staircase within. Now, though, it was only his own deep voice laden with sadness that he could hear speaking of nightmares which would never relent. And because he couldn't write them, he had to speak them, even the he was quick to discover that spoken horrors might be even worse than ones written.
"The way they were laying there, eyes wide and unblinking, ever staring at the sky they could not hope to gaze upon in their final moments for the ceiling above them.", he said as his now watery eyes raised from the book so that he could stare out the window and into the gray, rolling storm clouds beyond. "It was a night not so different from this one when I found them. The bodies of my godfather Harry and stand-in uncle Ron who had died in what appeared to be a quick and violent encounter. And when they were dead, each of their corpses had been disturbed by harsh hands that tore their collars and left raised, red scars strewn across their flesh. A message to remind the world that even if Voldemort was dead, his influence would be suffered forever."
His lips relaxed and his docile tone escaped him as he felt another quick, hot tear roll down his cheek. "The boy who lived...", the tall, steady man whispered as he stared at those dark clouds beyond the cold glass which trembled in that moment as thunder rumbled to tell of a gathering storm. "...only to die a man of no path.", he said, though he struggled with the words as he felt his throat tightening. All because he was recanting the words that scarred Harry's flesh. And then, as his eyes shifted from one window to the next, he remembered going through the same motions back then when he looked from one dead body to the other and remembered what it was that had been left on Ron's chest as well.
"Gallant brother. Fierce friend. Heroic pretender.", he said, though the side to side shaking of his head betrayed the thought in his mind that those words weren't true. They were, in both of their cases, a lie told by the worst kind of person. Unsavory creatures of humanity so vicious and detached in their natures that they would not just take the lives of those you loved most, but take their lives and leave their loved ones an insult etched into dead flesh that was yet warm whenever they would proceed in their defiling. People that he would hesitate to even call human at all, all of whom deserved no mercy for their atrocities committed against their own kind.
"Animals...", he uttered the word, not this time whispered but growled while a clenched fist trembled as the wood of a wand within began to bend. He'd almost cracked his own wand, in an instant of silent seething, but it groaned an echo to his kind spirit and caused him even a small twinge of pain when he realized that his most trusted companion was under too much stress. Instantly he glanced to his hand which raised, turned upwards and opened to reveal his dark toned, cypress wand. An impressive thing it was, and it did not deserve his wrath. So, as he adjusted his large hand around that pearl and silver grip, he glanced back up to the little book upon the table, its blank pages still staring back at him as he stood there stuck in that nightmare of a moment. A dark room, two dead bodies, and a young man who was too young to be challenged by tragedy already.
It had been too many years since he'd been there standing in that home that he inherited from Harry, but even after all that time he still felt as though he didn't belong. That he was somehow trespassing against better men like his father, his Uncle Sirius and Harry, all of whom would have still been around if it wasn't for those damn fanatics who allowed themselves to be dragged into Tom Riddle's hell. He'd left not long after he'd found Harry and Uncle Ron, which was something that he knew the others were never going to forgive him for, but when Harry made you swear to something then you did it. Especially when it was to get his other godson back from the darker side of society that he'd fallen in with and keep everyone else in their big family safe by keeping them at arm's length.
You didn't deny Harry Potter. You just did what you were told and took every bit of advice that he could possibly hope to offer, because he'd managed to predict it all would come to pass. He just had no way of knowing when. But to say that he was right about Voldemort's followers rising again and coming after he and the others who'd reestablished the Order of the Phoenix would have been an understatement. Because they came, and they came with a vengeance killing more than just Harry and Ron. They'd killed Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. All of whom had been well within their adult years with families of their own. And so the painful return of a new league of Dark Witches and Wizards was felt by many. And that meant that there must also be a new Dark Lord...
When he finally managed to move again he reached out, grasped one of the pages in the diary and pinched its corner between middle finger and thumb to give it a turning. And when he did he revealed a list of names on the next page that he had been working on for more than a week now. And as he looked at the final name he drew in a long, hesitant breath, held it in his thick chest a moment and then let it go in a long sigh. As he did he took a black feather pen, dipped it's tip in an ink jar and then drew a single stroke through that name as well, just like all of the rest. A way to show that somehow this list had been completed, and yet without context it could have been a hitlist of some kind. No one would have been the wiser but him.
This list, though, was a contact list, in truth, and each name on it had been haled the one who was looking it over as he slipped the pen into the jar and picked it up so that he could raise it closer to his face. "Fuck...", he whispered as he stared at eight names that belonged to people that he was sure hated and resented him, each at least a little bit. In fact he half expected most of them to punch him in the face when they saw him should they all attend that night, but there was just no telling if they'd decide to heed his warning and answer his call to gather. Not after so many years removed from the family by self imposed exile. At least, that's what he'd allowed them all to think, even though they would have surely realized at some point that he'd gone in search of a brother he needed to bring back into the light. He just hadn't been aware of the fact that there were others within the Dark Wizard communities that needed him too.
Others who didn't like hurting people or subscribing to ideas that saw muggles and half-bloods as inferior and unclean. Others who wanted out of their elitist families and just needed the right moment and a leader to show them the door and a safe place to sleep. That's where he'd been. Taking care of those he owed nothing to, all in the effort of making good on the promise that he'd made to Harry Potter. To always do things in the best interest of everyone else above himself, and to always, always look for the good in people.
If only his ex-family and friends could see it that way...
The Black Family Home - 10:37 PM
"No..."
A single, audible word was whispered into the darkness of a lonely, musty old room that looked as though it hadn't been redecorated in a lifetime. That sound had come from beneath a puddle of blankets and pillows messily strewn across the top of one of the old beds inside, and even though no body could be seen for the mound of coverings, it was clear that it had been a human sound. Because, despite the occasional squeaks and creaks of the old, worn out metal bedframes, never had either of those beds made a sound like that.
There were other smaller, more distressed noises that could soon be heard as well, though none of them took the form of any word or phrase. They were merely the groans and sharp breaths of a young man stuck deep within a dream. A dream that seemed connected to the world in an almost intimate way. Because as the storm was raging outside of the Black family home, there was also a storm raging on within his dream. A dream that he'd had before, and that he knew he'd have again. A dream within which he was standing with breath caught hitched in his throat while he stared out into the ocean and watched a single point within. A dark figure standing above the waterline, utterly and completely unfazed by raging waves and sweeping blankets of rain.
It was a violent hurricane that had wound up being the most dangerous and damaging of the decade at the time, but he'd been caught stuck in Ireland where it was at its worst along the coast of Dublin. And even though he hadn't managed to see their face with his own eyes, he knew who it was that was standing there so far out amongst the waves. He knew the name that belonged to that towering form standing still along that cold surface of chopping, lapping waves that just couldn't seem to swallow him down. It was the last man that anyone would ever have wanted it to be, and the searing burn in his heart told him the truth that he was trying to push out of his mind. This was the son of Tom Riddle, and it was by his wand that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had passed on into the next life.
"No!", he grunted the word again as he jolted awake, and as he threw his head back and forth to see the room around him he sent pillow and blanket alike flying across the room. That initial shock had thrown him off balance, though, and as he grasped with one hand for the edge of the bed to brace himself he couldn't manage to find it and continue sliding off of the bed until his entire body tumbled down acorss the floorboards. He then sprawled for a moment, flopped onto his back and took in a long, deep breath before letting it out in an irritated sigh. "Ughhh... come on.", he groaned as he rubbed his eyes and glanced towards the clock that read "10:39 PM".
After a moment more of rubbing his eyes, though, the young man stopped and froze in place for a moment as he contemplated what that time of night meant. And as the realization struck him he scrambled to his feet and began pulling on his clothes. "Shit! I almost overslept.", he growled out loud, but more to himself than anyone who might have been listening. He'd needed a bit of rest before the guests he'd called to gather at his old family home began to assemble, assuming they were brave enough to accept. They wouldn't have been aware if it was really him who'd been trying to contact them, though, and there was a reasonable expectation that it could have been a trap. He tried his best to assure him with what he'd shared with them in the letters, though, and that would have to be enough.
In his haste to get down stairs the young man pulled on pants, boots, buckled his belt, threw on his shirt and then grabbed his wand so that he could rush down stairs, but what he hadn't remembered to bring with him was that list of names he'd been keeping in that diary that had been left open on the bedside table.
Teddy Lupin
Victoire Weasley
James Potter
Albus Potter
Lily Potter
Rose Weasley
Hugo Weasley
Fred Weasley II
March 13th, 1933 - Tokyo, Japan
18 years after the demise of Muzan...
"They're here, dear sister", a young man's voice did whisper as the wind picked up a tuft of dust that quickly grew into a pillar while it weaved and wobbled it's way throughout the deserted street. There was a storm coming, and the trees had been speaking of it for hours by then while they danced in the night and offered their constant static song of rustling, restless leaves. Even the floorboards would tremble every now and again as the thunder rolled through the skies and shook the earth below as an illustration of it's might, yet there were so few awake to feel it. For the hour was late, and those still conscious were in great need of rest despite their self induced insomnia at the behest of carnal desire and addiction alike. They were what was left as days came to an end, ever wanting for sleep that would only come when their bodies gave out before falling where they may. Always the expense of their tireless needs that would never be met.
Beyond the feckless toil of mortal creatures there were others more suited to function in such darkness as the truest of deviants, and theirs was a charge they could not resist, for they were not born but created in the image of calculating and insidious eyes. They were but pawns in a game that would never end, their masters the things of Nightmare that would drink away your sanity until there was not a single drop left to be be had. Theirs was a struggle as old as time itself that promised praise and doting upon those of exceptional determination who could prove to be pristine in comparison to their siblings. Each one was unique and ever pining for the affection of overlords who cared not for love and coveted achievement above all. Achievement by which they would be rewarded with a crimson sip and untold strength with which they could destroy the spirited warriors who sought to protect a Human race that had no right to be provided salvation
"Come, Ire...", a young woman's voice called out into the darkness of a large, wide open room that was filled to the brim with a stifling darkness only partially illuminated by the pale glare of the moon through an open hatch above. And as that name was called a single form raised from a group of ten that had been kneeling, each one with head bowed and eyes closed. Yet as the one called upon raised up to take up a sure footed stance his set of bright red eyes sprang to life in the midst of all that suffocating blackness all around him. A step was taken, and then another as he slowly came to them when he was called, and as his eyes burned so bright they illuminated his handsome face in that soft, red glow that surrounded his white head of hair like a halo that followed him wherever he might go. A crown for a Demon Lord, ever to be remembered as the first to be blessed by the exalted children of Muzan.
His black heart was throbbing in his chest as he stopped before the glorious Son and Daughter, and as the Daughter watched, the Son grasped the one they'd called firmly by his shoulders and leaned up to to bite down firmly upon his throat. "Ugh!", the servant groaned as he felt the stabbing invasion of sharp fangs piercing his flesh, but only three gulps of him were had before the Son removed his mouth and took but a step beck. He then raised his left arm above his dutiful pawn and flicked a sharpened nail from his right hand across his own gray toned skin, the ripping sound of flesh able to be heard in the ever so quiet room.
"Drink.", he commanded his subordinate, and as he did he felt the other Demon reach up to take his arm by hand and by elbow so that he could pull the opened wound to his gaping mouth before lips could form around the injury. And as the drinking began the Son sighed softly for the twinge of pain that he felt as the drinking fiend clutched to his bleeding arm more and more firmly still. Just like the addict that he was, he couldn't bring himself to remove his thirsty maw, yet when the Son had offered enough he rared back with his opposite hand and slapped his lesser away with incredible force, which sent the other skipping across the floorboards a few paces before rolling over to his back with a second pained groan.
"You've had your fill.", warned the Daughter, of whom the lot of them feared above all else as she had always possessed the shorter temper and an inverse blessing to her brother's, of which she had become so very accustomed to using, even if it wasn't called for. In fact, she even took a step towards Ire, her amber eyes aglow while reddish hues outlined her ominous gaze, a display of deep and unsavory interest in the one who was supposed to be getting rewarded rather than devoured. In the interest of sparing perhaps their most effective subordinate, however, the Son reached out and slipped his hand around her waist before turning his shoulder into her chest to offer a gentle hug of restraint.
"Now, now, dear sister. We shan't destroy our most useful toys. Else we'll not get to have any fun at all.", he posed his question as he eyed that hungry look upon her face, yet as expected she began to relax against his arm and shoulder a moment later, either of her hands raising up to cradle her brother's arm and return the hug while resting her chin against his shoulder. There was not a word said by the Daughter, but that look in her eyes was still so very hungry, which had been a perfectly reasonable excuse to scatter the others to the wind so that they might go about their responsibilities assigned.
"Go.", he commanded, and no sooner had his voice made the demand did the ten Demon servants become a series of blurs before vanishing in the blink of an eye, never to return unless their masters demanded it of them.
November 26th, 1933 - The Butterfly Mansion
Name: Katashi Shiratori
Age: 29
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 186 lbs
Eye color: Reddish-Amber
Hair color: White
Alias: The Rising Wind
Rank: Kinoe of the Wind - Hashira in training
Blade color: White
Combat style:
The seemingly never ending clatter of falling rain had been the only constant for a lonely traveler who was approaching down a long and muddy road from the east. The coast was far behind him now as he'd finally made it out of the city limits and into the countryside where nothing but broad swathes of greenery could be seen, until of course he'd come to a tall, two story mansion that was old and in disrepair. A place that had clearly lost it's purpose in recent years and had not been well kept up with as was evident by the cracked windows, slipping shingles and spots of wood decay that were visible by it's outer appearance. Despite that, however, there did appear to be evidence of renovation that was littered about the front porch and garage in varying places.
Tools, new boarding, shingles and other supplies were stacked and ready for application, although the rain season had helped to keep repairs from going forward for the time being. As the lone man approached, though, he raised his cloaked head to reveal a sharp and jutting chin, which was all that could be seen apart from the glowing, amber eyes that were easily spotted no matter the shadows cast by his hood. And as his eyes read an old and hanging sign just at the edge of the property a calm, deep voice read the words, "Butterfly Mansion", which in a way confirmed his trip had been complete now that he had made it to the destination he'd been seeking. All at the behest of a previous employer who had called for him to respond to an urgent call for help. Some friend of a friend who needed the help of a sword for higher, no longer the Demon slayer he'd started out to be when he was just a boy.
He could recall the very last Demon's life he'd taken had been that of a motherly creature who sought to lure him into her home and care for him, despite the fact that her version of caring for him meant that she would be feasting on him before attempting to warp him and create for herself yet another Demon child the likes of which he had already dispatched t get to her. She had been nothing if not accommodating, however, even despite the rampage that he'd gone on when he'd killed her three sons and daughter, all of whom were innocent people who had their own families and loved ones before the Demon bother took them from their young lives. A means to meet her own selfish ends, for she had become so tired of being alone so very long ago. When he'd finally managed to kill her, though, she thanked him for laying her to rest while his number of kills was raised to seven in the entire span of his short career. Even though he'd only managed to take down minor Demon's, though, he'd learned quite a lot in his personal experiences, and perhaps the most important factor from of all was that you could never be prepared enough for the trials that laid in wait.
Slowly the young traveler took long, easy strides around the property ever carefully watching for any Demonic intrusions to what was considered by most a holy or sacred place. The Butterfly Temple had played home to many oh the exceedingly powerful Pillars, which to his understanding was in relevance to the strongest Demon Slayers of their specific Slayer Art, or Breathing technique. And so he was proud to have at least spent a bit of private time there, well aware that some of them had even been buried in the courtyards situated at the back of the mansion, towards which he was heading.
Once he entered the courtyards he was greeted by a few overflowing fountains that looked as though they hadn't been cleaned up in decades, and carefully situated on all sides of the fountains, along the fenceline and in the stone pots were countless different species of beautiful flora which were even more alluring now that so many of them had been allowed to grow wild and unchecked. That, however, also brought with it the risk of cross pollinization, which meant that some of those flowers could be poisonous or potentially invasive in their potentially hallucinogenic effects. So, as he walked through the courtyards looking back and forth for any signs of life, he was met with nothing, at least for now, and as he scaled the steps up to the top of a long, wide back porch of the mansion the young man took one last glance around before scooting up under the awning so that he could get comfortable in a place that was out of the rain.
It didn't appear that anyone had managed to make it just yet, assuming that anyone else was due to arrive. What he was certain of, though, was that he had a bit of time to kill, and so he pulled his travel bag off of his shoulder and reached inside so that he could fish around until he found something in particular that he was looking for. Of course, once he found it he pulled open the mouth of his travel back so that he could carefully remove the elegant little music box from within, which had been a favored gift to his mother that he had taken back after she'd passed away many years before.
Now that he was there and with no one around to hear it, though, the young man did not bother to hesitate as he grasped the key at the edge of the box so that he could slowly start winding it, crank after crank until it eventually became tight and refused to wind any further. He then raised both of his legs up and crossed them over one another so that he could get himself comfortable for a moment, and when he laid the little music box down to rest just next to his right leg he took a deep breath and laid back so that he could enjoy a moment to himself. A moment that, if asked, he would have claimed he deserved to enjoy all alone, even though he expected that his new employer would be the "down to business" type who wasn't very interested in any lounging while listening to precious little songs. Before he might arrive and ruin his fleeting moments of peace, though, the young man had decided that none would interrupt his little music box's song for the time being, which right at that moment he needed to hear very much...
Demon Slayer Corps:
Name: Katashi Shiratori
Nickname: "Katan"
Alias: The Rising Wind
Age: 29
Birthday: August 4th, 1904
Gender: Male
Orientation: Heterosexual
Family/Bloodline: Shiratori
Father: Katsui Shiratori(Deceased)
Mother: Mi Shiratori(Deceased)
Brother(s): Kato Shiratori(26) - Koji Shiratori(24)
Sister(s): Mai Shiratori(17)
Rank: Kinoe of the Wind - "Wind Hashira"
Combat style: Wind Breathing
Blade color: White
Biography: Katashi was the third born of three sons and the last gift to a mother and father who had wanted many sons and daughters, but had only managed three sons over the span of twenty years of effort. Even their local doctors in town had advised his mother that she was lucky to have even one child, let alone three sons. It had been their father who had seemingly been the issue, however, for he was partially disabled after a dangerous and stressful life of Demon Slaying at the behest of his own father.
When Katashi's two older brothers, each of them twins, reached the age of sixteen years their father left his blade to his youngest son, Katashi, who was only ten years of age at the time, and took his older sons to be trained with the Wind Art Master. The Master of the Wind breathing technique had been Katashi's father's rival in youth, but once their Master had passed on his rival was proven to be the only one suitable to continue teaching the technique as a "Master" or "Mentor" due to the elder Shiratori's injuries. Before the trio could complete their journey to the Master of the Wind Breathing technique's estate, however, they were attacked after entering a dark and uncharted forest by an unknown aggressor.
Their remains were found scattered and torn apart, strewn about as if they'd been played with after death. Even their valuables had remained in their belongings, suggesting that the killing was not a consequence of attempted robbery. There was intent behind their murder, and they would never have the opportunity to tell their story and seek vengeance.
When Katashi came of age he gave his father's blade to his mother, bade her farewell and moved her from the country into the nearest large city, which had been the capital of their region. He did so knowing that he would be safer there and set out on his own to find the retired Wind Breathing Master, well aware that he would be reluctant to share teachings that were now considered obsolete in a world without Demons. It was Katashi's opinion, though, that Demons hadn't ever truly been expelled from the world, and that if they had his brothers and his father would still be alive...
Physical Attributes
Style of dress: Flowing black and white robes with golden trimmings
Notable scars/tattoos: A few deep scars and scrapes across his arms and upper body, some even across his thighs and his neck, though none upon his face
Physical condition: Katashi is in peak physical condition and trains his body relentlessly with weighted bracers and ringlets on his wrists and biceps. He knows no desire for rest and boasts a physical prowess that is unmatched by anyone outside of the highest ranks of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 186 lbs
Eye color: Reddish-Amber
Hair color: White
Personality Attributes
Likes/Joys:
Dislikes/Fears:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Gear: Demon Slayer's robes, A Demon Slayer's blade, a single pack of supplies like food rations, a single tent and thin layered sleep bedding, casual clothing, an extra pair of boots and sandals.
Training details: Trained under the Sixth Wind Hashira, Sanemi Shinazugawa, the previous Wind Pillar who in recent years had passed away. This has left Katashi as the highest ranking Wind Breathing user alive.
Wind Breathing Forms:
First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter
Second Form: Claws - Purifying Wind
Third Form: Clear Storm Wind Tree
Fourth Form: Rising Dust Storm
Fifth Form: Cold Mountain Wind
Sixth Form: Black Wind Mountain Mist
Seventh Form: Gale - Sudden Gusts
Eighth Form: Primary Gale Slash
Ninth Form: Idaten Typhoon
Tenth Form: Wind's Whisper - Dead Silence
Blade:
Just felt like reposting this to see if anyone fancied these lovely little Next Generation fandom plots. These were originally going to be some group or 1x1 storylines that take place in some of our most prized and praised cinema and anime worlds. Those being Harry Potter, Demon Slayer and Pokemon. I'm a big fan of eastern stories and art styles, so Demon Slayer and Pokemon land on this list, but these all were patched together over years of creating and trying a few stories like these. Sadly, though, the Harry Potter prompt hasn't ever got any play at all. And that all seemed like a shame. Like a waste of potential.
So! I'm just posting this here to leave them on offer in case anyone thinks they could have some fun with it. I'm down to arrange a group story, though 1x1s seem to be so much easier to establish a posting pace with. So ask about groups at your own peril. :P
Regardless of all that, though, I just figured I'd share and see if this stirs up anyone's creativity, and if it does then let me know. PM's open.
Farewell ^_^
Note: Demon Slayer character has been updated a bit
-N
Name: Jericho Orion Black
Alias: "Grim"
Initials: J.O.B.
Age: 29
Birthday: November 7th - 2002
Gender: Male
Orientation: Heterosexual
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 208 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Dark Brunette
Notable Scars/Markings: Bears a scar across his brow and one along his jawline where no hair ever grows in. He also has a number of scars in the form of raised, pale lines and seared, pale flesh on his forearms, his upper arms, shoulders and his back from burns and lacerations during bloody and sometimes fatal duels that he has been involved in on a few occasions.
Wand Dimensions: 13 ¾ inches
Wand Make/Style: Smooth, elegant lines etched into a dark toned wood crafted with a pearl handle capped by etched silver ringlets.
Wand Wood:
"Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others' natures."
- Garrick Ollivander
- Garrick Ollivander
Wand Core:
"As a rule, dragon heartstrings produced wands with the most power, and which were capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tended to learn more quickly than other types. While they could change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bonded strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tended to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it would not incline that way of its own accord. It was also the most prone of the many other cores to having accidents, being somewhat temperamental."
- Garrick Ollivander
- Garrick Ollivander
Wand Flexibility:
"A rigid flexibility means that the wand will only give it's loyalty to an owner who faced a great personal tragedy. Good for practical magic, but not good with magic that's frivolous and silly. The owners are cautious and are slow to trust, but are usually not unkind. They prefer to be left alone so they can do what they want to do, regardless of what anyone else says."
- Garrick Ollivander
- Garrick Ollivander
THE HOUSE OF BLACK
House Membership: Slytherin House
Hogwarts Career: 2014 to 2021
True Allegiance: The Order of the Phoenix
Otherwise known as "Harry's Heroes" the Order of the Phoenix is yet again born anew and consisting of the sons and daughters of Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny's generation.
Family Name: The Noble House of Black
Patriarch: Jericho Orion Black
Living Members
Jericho Orion Black: 29 years old
Marius Arcturus Black: 27 years old
Immediate Family
Father: Regulus Arcturus Black - Born sometime in 1961 - Died December 30th 2004 at 43, the same year that Marius was born
Mother: Hestia Jones - Born April 8th 1967 - Status Unknown - If alive would be 65 years old
Brother: Marius Arcturus Black - Born April 17th 2004, Age 27
Jericho Orion Black: 29 years old
Marius Arcturus Black: 27 years old
Immediate Family
Father: Regulus Arcturus Black - Born sometime in 1961 - Died December 30th 2004 at 43, the same year that Marius was born
Mother: Hestia Jones - Born April 8th 1967 - Status Unknown - If alive would be 65 years old
Brother: Marius Arcturus Black - Born April 17th 2004, Age 27
In the the years when days seemed their darkest there was a confrontation between brothers. One determined to make his family of ruthless cultists proud while the other found trustworthy company among those considered enemy. A phoenix of gray and a snake of green. The screaming matches had settled their differences in the end, for it was brothers who fought one another hardest who cared the most, and these brothers fought hard as young hearts could bear.
Sirius Black, the blackest of sheep, and his younger brother Regulus Black, the son perfect to a fault, had both loved and hated one another ever since they could remember. A conflicted relationship that was ever a bleeding vein for the both of them, and it was most of all because they had never managed to make one another see the things that they each thought were important. For Sirius was ever focused on his friends, his education and his dedication to living a full and expectation free life. Yet young Regulus remained devoted to family, faith and the prolonged posterity of their loved ones to come. And so they grew different, each strong, but neither much alike, and eventually their paths diverged.
Until the night that Regulus had been scolded and abused for the final time by the one known as "Lord Voldemort".
He was just eighteen that night that he ventured into the deepest and darkest of caves that he could have ever imagined, and it was in this very cave that he was said to have perished after being pulled into a watery graveyard by sickly, pallid, grasping hands. This was not to be the case, however, because before those creatures could pull him so deep that he might vanish into the cold abyss there was a flame set forth, and it burned through the cold, black lake as though the water itself could catch flame as oil. A most powerful flame that could only have ever burned so bright and so hot because it was the flame of a lover. A lover not yet ready to let go, and so she refused to let go that night, dragged the broken young man into an charmed boat and escaped with naught but lies to spread of the demise of the youngest Black.
Her words spoke of death and a cold, lifeless body still resting deep at the bottom of the lake within that awful cave of horrors, but they were lies to shield away the one who'd played subject to her tall tales. For Regulus may have survived, but his form had been greatly weakened by the poisonous kiss from the infected chain of a locket that he'd worn around his throat more than a year. He'd stolen it from the mad Dark Lord, he'd kept it from his family's sight, and then he'd arranged for a decoy to be left so that the real horcrux could be destroyed in his own time when he knew he was adequately prepared. When taking that cursed chain, though, there was an oversight that saw him taking a chilly plunge with undead creatures that suffered a dark eternity there in that black water pit that would never see the light of day.
They tried to drag him down into the afterlife that night, but they were denied for the sake of love, and because that love was obsessive it ensured that Regulus Black would never reveal himself to the world again. A thought that bothered the young man less and less as his body suffered the effects of the locket that he'd worn for much too long. His body seemed sickly and aged into his sixties by the look of his physique, even though he was only just thirty-nine when his lover and caretaker bore him a son. A son who would never really get to know his proud father for the cancer that finally took him one night when he was much too young to understand.
Like Harry's father had predicted in his own son's case, Regulus had expected that his son would benefit greatly from the protection and guidance of his ever decent brother Sirius. And even though they'd had their differences, Regulus had seen to it that Sirius would be the boy's Godfather in the end. A role that he expected his brother to step into without question, just as he had done for Harry who had needed Sirius too. Sadly, though, Sirius had been killed when Harry was just a teen and still growing himself. A fact that made it all the more admirable when Harry Potter himself had gone on and adopted the last two sons of the house of Black in place of his own, late Godfather Sirius.
They were all that Harry had left of his godfather Sirius, and more than that they were the last living members of the House of Black. A great house, despite its dark past, that deserved a chance at redemption in the generations to come.
TO DWELL ON DREAMS AND FORGET TO LIVE
AN ADULT RATED POTTERVERSE STORY
AN ADULT RATED POTTERVERSE STORY
October 13th, 2032 - thirty-four years after Voldemort's death
"I remember the heat"
Four words were all that he'd managed to write that night. Four words after more than an hour staring down at the otherwise blank pages of a little, black diary he hadn't written in since he was just a boy. A relic full of memories from the past when he was young, eager to learn and navigating teenage years as a lanky, but still growing teen attending school at Hogwarts. And even though there was a furious, boiling river of emotion writhing behind the dam within his soul, he still could muster no further words. Just those four that he'd been staring at until he could feel the stinging redness of exhaustion in his eyes beginning to nag at him so much that a tear finally streamed down his cheek.
It drew a gasp from his pale lips as he finally diverted his eyes from the page and raised a hand of long, slender digits to brush away the moisture. Then he looked back down to the page and decided that to speak the truth was better than never being able to write it down in that little book.
"I remember the heat that rushed like a firebolt up my spine when I saw them laying there...", he whispered into the dead silence of the large, cold room that decades before had been so full with warmth and joy. In fact he could remember those occasions as vividly as though they had taken place right there just the day before. Days when laughter filled the dining room almost all hours of the day and the smell of mouth watering meals would circulate the home by way of the long halls and winding staircase within. Now, though, it was only his own deep voice laden with sadness that he could hear speaking of nightmares which would never relent. And because he couldn't write them, he had to speak them, even the he was quick to discover that spoken horrors might be even worse than ones written.
"The way they were laying there, eyes wide and unblinking, ever staring at the sky they could not hope to gaze upon in their final moments for the ceiling above them.", he said as his now watery eyes raised from the book so that he could stare out the window and into the gray, rolling storm clouds beyond. "It was a night not so different from this one when I found them. The bodies of my godfather Harry and stand-in uncle Ron who had died in what appeared to be a quick and violent encounter. And when they were dead, each of their corpses had been disturbed by harsh hands that tore their collars and left raised, red scars strewn across their flesh. A message to remind the world that even if Voldemort was dead, his influence would be suffered forever."
His lips relaxed and his docile tone escaped him as he felt another quick, hot tear roll down his cheek. "The boy who lived...", the tall, steady man whispered as he stared at those dark clouds beyond the cold glass which trembled in that moment as thunder rumbled to tell of a gathering storm. "...only to die a man of no path.", he said, though he struggled with the words as he felt his throat tightening. All because he was recanting the words that scarred Harry's flesh. And then, as his eyes shifted from one window to the next, he remembered going through the same motions back then when he looked from one dead body to the other and remembered what it was that had been left on Ron's chest as well.
"Gallant brother. Fierce friend. Heroic pretender.", he said, though the side to side shaking of his head betrayed the thought in his mind that those words weren't true. They were, in both of their cases, a lie told by the worst kind of person. Unsavory creatures of humanity so vicious and detached in their natures that they would not just take the lives of those you loved most, but take their lives and leave their loved ones an insult etched into dead flesh that was yet warm whenever they would proceed in their defiling. People that he would hesitate to even call human at all, all of whom deserved no mercy for their atrocities committed against their own kind.
"Animals...", he uttered the word, not this time whispered but growled while a clenched fist trembled as the wood of a wand within began to bend. He'd almost cracked his own wand, in an instant of silent seething, but it groaned an echo to his kind spirit and caused him even a small twinge of pain when he realized that his most trusted companion was under too much stress. Instantly he glanced to his hand which raised, turned upwards and opened to reveal his dark toned, cypress wand. An impressive thing it was, and it did not deserve his wrath. So, as he adjusted his large hand around that pearl and silver grip, he glanced back up to the little book upon the table, its blank pages still staring back at him as he stood there stuck in that nightmare of a moment. A dark room, two dead bodies, and a young man who was too young to be challenged by tragedy already.
It had been too many years since he'd been there standing in that home that he inherited from Harry, but even after all that time he still felt as though he didn't belong. That he was somehow trespassing against better men like his father, his Uncle Sirius and Harry, all of whom would have still been around if it wasn't for those damn fanatics who allowed themselves to be dragged into Tom Riddle's hell. He'd left not long after he'd found Harry and Uncle Ron, which was something that he knew the others were never going to forgive him for, but when Harry made you swear to something then you did it. Especially when it was to get his other godson back from the darker side of society that he'd fallen in with and keep everyone else in their big family safe by keeping them at arm's length.
You didn't deny Harry Potter. You just did what you were told and took every bit of advice that he could possibly hope to offer, because he'd managed to predict it all would come to pass. He just had no way of knowing when. But to say that he was right about Voldemort's followers rising again and coming after he and the others who'd reestablished the Order of the Phoenix would have been an understatement. Because they came, and they came with a vengeance killing more than just Harry and Ron. They'd killed Luna Lovegood, Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. All of whom had been well within their adult years with families of their own. And so the painful return of a new league of Dark Witches and Wizards was felt by many. And that meant that there must also be a new Dark Lord...
When he finally managed to move again he reached out, grasped one of the pages in the diary and pinched its corner between middle finger and thumb to give it a turning. And when he did he revealed a list of names on the next page that he had been working on for more than a week now. And as he looked at the final name he drew in a long, hesitant breath, held it in his thick chest a moment and then let it go in a long sigh. As he did he took a black feather pen, dipped it's tip in an ink jar and then drew a single stroke through that name as well, just like all of the rest. A way to show that somehow this list had been completed, and yet without context it could have been a hitlist of some kind. No one would have been the wiser but him.
This list, though, was a contact list, in truth, and each name on it had been haled the one who was looking it over as he slipped the pen into the jar and picked it up so that he could raise it closer to his face. "Fuck...", he whispered as he stared at eight names that belonged to people that he was sure hated and resented him, each at least a little bit. In fact he half expected most of them to punch him in the face when they saw him should they all attend that night, but there was just no telling if they'd decide to heed his warning and answer his call to gather. Not after so many years removed from the family by self imposed exile. At least, that's what he'd allowed them all to think, even though they would have surely realized at some point that he'd gone in search of a brother he needed to bring back into the light. He just hadn't been aware of the fact that there were others within the Dark Wizard communities that needed him too.
Others who didn't like hurting people or subscribing to ideas that saw muggles and half-bloods as inferior and unclean. Others who wanted out of their elitist families and just needed the right moment and a leader to show them the door and a safe place to sleep. That's where he'd been. Taking care of those he owed nothing to, all in the effort of making good on the promise that he'd made to Harry Potter. To always do things in the best interest of everyone else above himself, and to always, always look for the good in people.
If only his ex-family and friends could see it that way...
The Black Family Home - 10:37 PM
"No..."
A single, audible word was whispered into the darkness of a lonely, musty old room that looked as though it hadn't been redecorated in a lifetime. That sound had come from beneath a puddle of blankets and pillows messily strewn across the top of one of the old beds inside, and even though no body could be seen for the mound of coverings, it was clear that it had been a human sound. Because, despite the occasional squeaks and creaks of the old, worn out metal bedframes, never had either of those beds made a sound like that.
There were other smaller, more distressed noises that could soon be heard as well, though none of them took the form of any word or phrase. They were merely the groans and sharp breaths of a young man stuck deep within a dream. A dream that seemed connected to the world in an almost intimate way. Because as the storm was raging outside of the Black family home, there was also a storm raging on within his dream. A dream that he'd had before, and that he knew he'd have again. A dream within which he was standing with breath caught hitched in his throat while he stared out into the ocean and watched a single point within. A dark figure standing above the waterline, utterly and completely unfazed by raging waves and sweeping blankets of rain.
It was a violent hurricane that had wound up being the most dangerous and damaging of the decade at the time, but he'd been caught stuck in Ireland where it was at its worst along the coast of Dublin. And even though he hadn't managed to see their face with his own eyes, he knew who it was that was standing there so far out amongst the waves. He knew the name that belonged to that towering form standing still along that cold surface of chopping, lapping waves that just couldn't seem to swallow him down. It was the last man that anyone would ever have wanted it to be, and the searing burn in his heart told him the truth that he was trying to push out of his mind. This was the son of Tom Riddle, and it was by his wand that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had passed on into the next life.
"No!", he grunted the word again as he jolted awake, and as he threw his head back and forth to see the room around him he sent pillow and blanket alike flying across the room. That initial shock had thrown him off balance, though, and as he grasped with one hand for the edge of the bed to brace himself he couldn't manage to find it and continue sliding off of the bed until his entire body tumbled down acorss the floorboards. He then sprawled for a moment, flopped onto his back and took in a long, deep breath before letting it out in an irritated sigh. "Ughhh... come on.", he groaned as he rubbed his eyes and glanced towards the clock that read "10:39 PM".
After a moment more of rubbing his eyes, though, the young man stopped and froze in place for a moment as he contemplated what that time of night meant. And as the realization struck him he scrambled to his feet and began pulling on his clothes. "Shit! I almost overslept.", he growled out loud, but more to himself than anyone who might have been listening. He'd needed a bit of rest before the guests he'd called to gather at his old family home began to assemble, assuming they were brave enough to accept. They wouldn't have been aware if it was really him who'd been trying to contact them, though, and there was a reasonable expectation that it could have been a trap. He tried his best to assure him with what he'd shared with them in the letters, though, and that would have to be enough.
In his haste to get down stairs the young man pulled on pants, boots, buckled his belt, threw on his shirt and then grabbed his wand so that he could rush down stairs, but what he hadn't remembered to bring with him was that list of names he'd been keeping in that diary that had been left open on the bedside table.
Victoire Weasley
James Potter
Albus Potter
Lily Potter
Rose Weasley
Hugo Weasley
Fred Weasley II
EPISODE I - THE BURDEN OF PURPOSE
March 13th, 1933 - Tokyo, Japan
18 years after the demise of Muzan...
"They're here, dear sister", a young man's voice did whisper as the wind picked up a tuft of dust that quickly grew into a pillar while it weaved and wobbled it's way throughout the deserted street. There was a storm coming, and the trees had been speaking of it for hours by then while they danced in the night and offered their constant static song of rustling, restless leaves. Even the floorboards would tremble every now and again as the thunder rolled through the skies and shook the earth below as an illustration of it's might, yet there were so few awake to feel it. For the hour was late, and those still conscious were in great need of rest despite their self induced insomnia at the behest of carnal desire and addiction alike. They were what was left as days came to an end, ever wanting for sleep that would only come when their bodies gave out before falling where they may. Always the expense of their tireless needs that would never be met.
Beyond the feckless toil of mortal creatures there were others more suited to function in such darkness as the truest of deviants, and theirs was a charge they could not resist, for they were not born but created in the image of calculating and insidious eyes. They were but pawns in a game that would never end, their masters the things of Nightmare that would drink away your sanity until there was not a single drop left to be be had. Theirs was a struggle as old as time itself that promised praise and doting upon those of exceptional determination who could prove to be pristine in comparison to their siblings. Each one was unique and ever pining for the affection of overlords who cared not for love and coveted achievement above all. Achievement by which they would be rewarded with a crimson sip and untold strength with which they could destroy the spirited warriors who sought to protect a Human race that had no right to be provided salvation
"Come, Ire...", a young woman's voice called out into the darkness of a large, wide open room that was filled to the brim with a stifling darkness only partially illuminated by the pale glare of the moon through an open hatch above. And as that name was called a single form raised from a group of ten that had been kneeling, each one with head bowed and eyes closed. Yet as the one called upon raised up to take up a sure footed stance his set of bright red eyes sprang to life in the midst of all that suffocating blackness all around him. A step was taken, and then another as he slowly came to them when he was called, and as his eyes burned so bright they illuminated his handsome face in that soft, red glow that surrounded his white head of hair like a halo that followed him wherever he might go. A crown for a Demon Lord, ever to be remembered as the first to be blessed by the exalted children of Muzan.
His black heart was throbbing in his chest as he stopped before the glorious Son and Daughter, and as the Daughter watched, the Son grasped the one they'd called firmly by his shoulders and leaned up to to bite down firmly upon his throat. "Ugh!", the servant groaned as he felt the stabbing invasion of sharp fangs piercing his flesh, but only three gulps of him were had before the Son removed his mouth and took but a step beck. He then raised his left arm above his dutiful pawn and flicked a sharpened nail from his right hand across his own gray toned skin, the ripping sound of flesh able to be heard in the ever so quiet room.
"Drink.", he commanded his subordinate, and as he did he felt the other Demon reach up to take his arm by hand and by elbow so that he could pull the opened wound to his gaping mouth before lips could form around the injury. And as the drinking began the Son sighed softly for the twinge of pain that he felt as the drinking fiend clutched to his bleeding arm more and more firmly still. Just like the addict that he was, he couldn't bring himself to remove his thirsty maw, yet when the Son had offered enough he rared back with his opposite hand and slapped his lesser away with incredible force, which sent the other skipping across the floorboards a few paces before rolling over to his back with a second pained groan.
"You've had your fill.", warned the Daughter, of whom the lot of them feared above all else as she had always possessed the shorter temper and an inverse blessing to her brother's, of which she had become so very accustomed to using, even if it wasn't called for. In fact, she even took a step towards Ire, her amber eyes aglow while reddish hues outlined her ominous gaze, a display of deep and unsavory interest in the one who was supposed to be getting rewarded rather than devoured. In the interest of sparing perhaps their most effective subordinate, however, the Son reached out and slipped his hand around her waist before turning his shoulder into her chest to offer a gentle hug of restraint.
"Now, now, dear sister. We shan't destroy our most useful toys. Else we'll not get to have any fun at all.", he posed his question as he eyed that hungry look upon her face, yet as expected she began to relax against his arm and shoulder a moment later, either of her hands raising up to cradle her brother's arm and return the hug while resting her chin against his shoulder. There was not a word said by the Daughter, but that look in her eyes was still so very hungry, which had been a perfectly reasonable excuse to scatter the others to the wind so that they might go about their responsibilities assigned.
"Go.", he commanded, and no sooner had his voice made the demand did the ten Demon servants become a series of blurs before vanishing in the blink of an eye, never to return unless their masters demanded it of them.
Names: Mugen and Muika Kibutsuji
Age: Twins, both age 25
Birthday: Sometime during the year 1908
Genders:
Mugen - Male
Muika - Female
Orientations: Unknown
Height:
Mugen - 5'9"
Muika - 5'6"
Weight:
Mugen - 152 lbs
Muika - 119 lbs
Eyes: Both Amber with an outer edging/hue of red
Hair: Both jet black
Family:
Father: Muzan Kibutsuji(Deceased)
Mother: Rei Kibutsuji(Deceased)
Older Sister: Remi Kibutsuji(status Unknown)
Age: Twins, both age 25
Birthday: Sometime during the year 1908
Genders:
Mugen - Male
Muika - Female
Orientations: Unknown
Height:
Mugen - 5'9"
Muika - 5'6"
Weight:
Mugen - 152 lbs
Muika - 119 lbs
Eyes: Both Amber with an outer edging/hue of red
Hair: Both jet black
Family:
Father: Muzan Kibutsuji(Deceased)
Mother: Rei Kibutsuji(Deceased)
Older Sister: Remi Kibutsuji(status Unknown)
November 26th, 1933 - The Butterfly Mansion
Name: Katashi Shiratori
Age: 29
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 186 lbs
Eye color: Reddish-Amber
Hair color: White
Alias: The Rising Wind
Rank: Kinoe of the Wind - Hashira in training
Blade color: White
Combat style:
Wind Breathing Forms:
First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter
Second Form: Claws - Purifying Wind
Third Form: Clear Storm Wind Tree
Fourth Form: Rising Dust Storm
Fifth Form: Cold Mountain Wind
Sixth Form: Black Wind Mountain Mist
Seventh Form: Gale - Sudden Gusts
Eighth Form: Primary Gale Slash
Ninth Form: Idaten Typhoon
Tenth Form: Wind's Whisper - Dead Silence
First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter
Second Form: Claws - Purifying Wind
Third Form: Clear Storm Wind Tree
Fourth Form: Rising Dust Storm
Fifth Form: Cold Mountain Wind
Sixth Form: Black Wind Mountain Mist
Seventh Form: Gale - Sudden Gusts
Eighth Form: Primary Gale Slash
Ninth Form: Idaten Typhoon
Tenth Form: Wind's Whisper - Dead Silence
The seemingly never ending clatter of falling rain had been the only constant for a lonely traveler who was approaching down a long and muddy road from the east. The coast was far behind him now as he'd finally made it out of the city limits and into the countryside where nothing but broad swathes of greenery could be seen, until of course he'd come to a tall, two story mansion that was old and in disrepair. A place that had clearly lost it's purpose in recent years and had not been well kept up with as was evident by the cracked windows, slipping shingles and spots of wood decay that were visible by it's outer appearance. Despite that, however, there did appear to be evidence of renovation that was littered about the front porch and garage in varying places.
Tools, new boarding, shingles and other supplies were stacked and ready for application, although the rain season had helped to keep repairs from going forward for the time being. As the lone man approached, though, he raised his cloaked head to reveal a sharp and jutting chin, which was all that could be seen apart from the glowing, amber eyes that were easily spotted no matter the shadows cast by his hood. And as his eyes read an old and hanging sign just at the edge of the property a calm, deep voice read the words, "Butterfly Mansion", which in a way confirmed his trip had been complete now that he had made it to the destination he'd been seeking. All at the behest of a previous employer who had called for him to respond to an urgent call for help. Some friend of a friend who needed the help of a sword for higher, no longer the Demon slayer he'd started out to be when he was just a boy.
He could recall the very last Demon's life he'd taken had been that of a motherly creature who sought to lure him into her home and care for him, despite the fact that her version of caring for him meant that she would be feasting on him before attempting to warp him and create for herself yet another Demon child the likes of which he had already dispatched t get to her. She had been nothing if not accommodating, however, even despite the rampage that he'd gone on when he'd killed her three sons and daughter, all of whom were innocent people who had their own families and loved ones before the Demon bother took them from their young lives. A means to meet her own selfish ends, for she had become so tired of being alone so very long ago. When he'd finally managed to kill her, though, she thanked him for laying her to rest while his number of kills was raised to seven in the entire span of his short career. Even though he'd only managed to take down minor Demon's, though, he'd learned quite a lot in his personal experiences, and perhaps the most important factor from of all was that you could never be prepared enough for the trials that laid in wait.
Slowly the young traveler took long, easy strides around the property ever carefully watching for any Demonic intrusions to what was considered by most a holy or sacred place. The Butterfly Temple had played home to many oh the exceedingly powerful Pillars, which to his understanding was in relevance to the strongest Demon Slayers of their specific Slayer Art, or Breathing technique. And so he was proud to have at least spent a bit of private time there, well aware that some of them had even been buried in the courtyards situated at the back of the mansion, towards which he was heading.
Once he entered the courtyards he was greeted by a few overflowing fountains that looked as though they hadn't been cleaned up in decades, and carefully situated on all sides of the fountains, along the fenceline and in the stone pots were countless different species of beautiful flora which were even more alluring now that so many of them had been allowed to grow wild and unchecked. That, however, also brought with it the risk of cross pollinization, which meant that some of those flowers could be poisonous or potentially invasive in their potentially hallucinogenic effects. So, as he walked through the courtyards looking back and forth for any signs of life, he was met with nothing, at least for now, and as he scaled the steps up to the top of a long, wide back porch of the mansion the young man took one last glance around before scooting up under the awning so that he could get comfortable in a place that was out of the rain.
It didn't appear that anyone had managed to make it just yet, assuming that anyone else was due to arrive. What he was certain of, though, was that he had a bit of time to kill, and so he pulled his travel bag off of his shoulder and reached inside so that he could fish around until he found something in particular that he was looking for. Of course, once he found it he pulled open the mouth of his travel back so that he could carefully remove the elegant little music box from within, which had been a favored gift to his mother that he had taken back after she'd passed away many years before.
Now that he was there and with no one around to hear it, though, the young man did not bother to hesitate as he grasped the key at the edge of the box so that he could slowly start winding it, crank after crank until it eventually became tight and refused to wind any further. He then raised both of his legs up and crossed them over one another so that he could get himself comfortable for a moment, and when he laid the little music box down to rest just next to his right leg he took a deep breath and laid back so that he could enjoy a moment to himself. A moment that, if asked, he would have claimed he deserved to enjoy all alone, even though he expected that his new employer would be the "down to business" type who wasn't very interested in any lounging while listening to precious little songs. Before he might arrive and ruin his fleeting moments of peace, though, the young man had decided that none would interrupt his little music box's song for the time being, which right at that moment he needed to hear very much...
Demon Slayer Corps:
Name: Katashi Shiratori
Nickname: "Katan"
Alias: The Rising Wind
Age: 29
Birthday: August 4th, 1904
Gender: Male
Orientation: Heterosexual
Family/Bloodline: Shiratori
Father: Katsui Shiratori(Deceased)
Mother: Mi Shiratori(Deceased)
Brother(s): Kato Shiratori(26) - Koji Shiratori(24)
Sister(s): Mai Shiratori(17)
Rank: Kinoe of the Wind - "Wind Hashira"
Combat style: Wind Breathing
Blade color: White
Biography: Katashi was the third born of three sons and the last gift to a mother and father who had wanted many sons and daughters, but had only managed three sons over the span of twenty years of effort. Even their local doctors in town had advised his mother that she was lucky to have even one child, let alone three sons. It had been their father who had seemingly been the issue, however, for he was partially disabled after a dangerous and stressful life of Demon Slaying at the behest of his own father.
When Katashi's two older brothers, each of them twins, reached the age of sixteen years their father left his blade to his youngest son, Katashi, who was only ten years of age at the time, and took his older sons to be trained with the Wind Art Master. The Master of the Wind breathing technique had been Katashi's father's rival in youth, but once their Master had passed on his rival was proven to be the only one suitable to continue teaching the technique as a "Master" or "Mentor" due to the elder Shiratori's injuries. Before the trio could complete their journey to the Master of the Wind Breathing technique's estate, however, they were attacked after entering a dark and uncharted forest by an unknown aggressor.
Their remains were found scattered and torn apart, strewn about as if they'd been played with after death. Even their valuables had remained in their belongings, suggesting that the killing was not a consequence of attempted robbery. There was intent behind their murder, and they would never have the opportunity to tell their story and seek vengeance.
When Katashi came of age he gave his father's blade to his mother, bade her farewell and moved her from the country into the nearest large city, which had been the capital of their region. He did so knowing that he would be safer there and set out on his own to find the retired Wind Breathing Master, well aware that he would be reluctant to share teachings that were now considered obsolete in a world without Demons. It was Katashi's opinion, though, that Demons hadn't ever truly been expelled from the world, and that if they had his brothers and his father would still be alive...
Physical Attributes
Style of dress: Flowing black and white robes with golden trimmings
Notable scars/tattoos: A few deep scars and scrapes across his arms and upper body, some even across his thighs and his neck, though none upon his face
Physical condition: Katashi is in peak physical condition and trains his body relentlessly with weighted bracers and ringlets on his wrists and biceps. He knows no desire for rest and boasts a physical prowess that is unmatched by anyone outside of the highest ranks of the Demon Slayer Corps.
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 186 lbs
Eye color: Reddish-Amber
Hair color: White
Personality Attributes
Likes/Joys:
- Time to himself to reflect on his journey and the path that he has set himself upon. Carefully considers what his father would do
- Silence and solitude that he gets the opportunity to fill with reading and studying between his assignments
- A friendly atmosphere, a dark and comfortable corner to claim as his own and a strong drink to settle his nerves while enjoying music or overhearing someone's stories
- Honing and perfecting his Wind Breathing technique while learning of the many ways that he can enhance himself for future combat engagements
- Listening to his mother's music box whenever he has for himself a moment of peace so that he can remember her, his father and brothers when times were easier
- Selfish
Dislikes/Fears:
- Selfish, rude and arrogant people
- Politics and religious platitudes
- Hectic, loud places that never seem to settle down
- Forward or obnoxious people who are not afraid to invade someone else's personal space
- The scent or presence of a Demon anywhere near him. He has outgrown his fear and now struggles with rage for knowing they're still among the living
Strengths:
- Superhuman physical strength and speed that is absolutely unmatched by anyone unless they happen to be a well trained Demon Slayer
- Incredible strength of will, resilience in the face of death and stamina the likes of which have seen him through the most deadly of altercations by managing to outlast his foes by way of his iron will
- A quick wit and exceptional aptitude for in the moment problem solving/tactical approach born of non-stop combat training even before his formative years under the direction of his late father
Weaknesses:
- Occasionally will underestimate his foes with the knowledge that most demons tend to resist those who created them, even at risk of destruction. Considers almost all demons mindless and driven by instinct like carnal beasts
- Katashi has on more than one occasion pushed himself past his own limitations, despite how vast they might be, and has wound up with injures that have taken weeks or even months to recover from
- His truest mortal weakness is a proclivity for gambling games, even though he has always taken care to make sure that at least one pocket remains full of coin no matter how much he might squander
Gear: Demon Slayer's robes, A Demon Slayer's blade, a single pack of supplies like food rations, a single tent and thin layered sleep bedding, casual clothing, an extra pair of boots and sandals.
Training details: Trained under the Sixth Wind Hashira, Sanemi Shinazugawa, the previous Wind Pillar who in recent years had passed away. This has left Katashi as the highest ranking Wind Breathing user alive.
Wind Breathing Forms:
First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter
Second Form: Claws - Purifying Wind
Third Form: Clear Storm Wind Tree
Fourth Form: Rising Dust Storm
Fifth Form: Cold Mountain Wind
Sixth Form: Black Wind Mountain Mist
Seventh Form: Gale - Sudden Gusts
Eighth Form: Primary Gale Slash
Ninth Form: Idaten Typhoon
Tenth Form: Wind's Whisper - Dead Silence
Blade:
Last edited:
